


First Impressions

by LadySilver



Category: Highlander: The Series, Leverage
Genre: Comment Fic, Crossover, Crossovers by LS, Gen, au bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-18
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-12-31 10:35:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12130599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadySilver/pseuds/LadySilver
Summary: Eliot and Methos meet.





	First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Reposting from comment_fic and dreamwidth. 
> 
> Based on the prompt: Highlander/Leverage, Adam Pierson/Eliot Spencer, Whoever this guy is, he is not a simple academic.

Eliot couldn’t walk into a room without noting key characteristics of those already there: how they held their shoulders, where they held their hands, the cut of their clothes, the positioning of their feet. This skill had saved his ass on too many occasions to count. On this occasion, at this bar, is meant that his attention was immediately drawn to the man sitting at the small table pressed to the wall, positioned under one of the smoked glass sconces that lit the boundaries of the room. The man should have been non-descript. He looked about Eliot’s age, tousled brown hair, prominent nose. A bulky tan fisherman’s sweater swathed his body. He was leaning back against the wall, one arm propped on the table, legs sprawled out in front of him careless of how he was blocking the path between the tables. And he was reading a hefty leather bound book, and he had an expression on his face of … was that nostalgia? What could he be reading that made him look like he was remembering a lost love? 

With a gesture to the bartender, Eliot ordered up two bottles of beer and carried them over to the table. He didn’t care if the man wanted to be alone; Eliot wanted to get to know him better—all the pieces together bespoke a person with a story and Eliot didn’t trust people with stories. He didn’t trust people in general, but experience had taught him that people with stories also had histories and that could make them unpredictable. He clanked the bottles on the table, the condensation making wet rings on the wood.

“You really know how to make friends,” the man said without looking away from his book, though Eliot couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being observed as keenly as he had done the observing. The man had an English accent, and now that Eliot was closer he could see that the book was old, its cover stained and scarred. From this angle, the letters looked like Greek.

“Eliot Spencer,” he introduced, and helped himself to the other seat and stuck a hand out.

Now the man looked up. His eyes sparkled with intelligence, and something else too. Something darker. “Benjamin Adams,” he offered, taking the offered hand in a quick shake.

At the touch, Eliot’s survival instincts screamed at him to get up and leave. Now. Whoever this guy is, they said, he is not a simple academic. But who else would be reading Greek but an academic? Eliot wondered, even as he thought of several possibilities. Though he knew better than to argue against his instincts, Eliot decided to risk a few more minutes. He’d probably regret letting his curiosity win, but he needed to know more about this Ben Adams.

Because when he shook the man’s hand, he felt the calluses that ridged the pads of his fingers. And they were very distinctive calluses.


End file.
